


Bites

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Immediate [3]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Biting, Blood, Bruises, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Possessive Behavior, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4939753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shizuo rolls sideways instead, shifts his focus from the ceiling to the pale slant of Izaya’s shoulders, and when he throws a hand out it’s to touch the purple bruise of a bitemark rather than to pin Izaya to the sheets." Shizuo and Izaya take a minute of calm to compare bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bites

“Ow,” Izaya says to the bedroom ceiling. “Were you  _trying_  to break my wrist that time?”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, also without looking away from the flat white surface overhead. His entire body is still tingling with enough pleasant heat to sap any bite he might have mustered for the words. “You weren’t complaining five minutes ago.”

“I’m not sure I could have told you my  _name_  five minutes ago,” Izaya admits. “Who was it that gave you the impression sex has to happen in a war zone?”

Shizuo finds the irritation to tilt his head sideways, to narrow his eyes at the smirk Izaya is wearing that says he knows the answer already. “I wonder,” he deadpans, biting the words to splinters, and Izaya glances over at him, grin stretching wide enough to bare the white edge of his teeth.

In other circumstances Shizuo would hiss anger at that, maybe lean in close to stage an invasion of Izaya’s personal space and get his fingers, mouth, teeth against the curve of throat or the pout of lips or the fragility of a wrist. Izaya’s hands would end up scratching his skin, or dragging at his hair, and they’d end up against a wall or on the floor or maybe over the back of the couch. But the just finished their second round in the last hour, and Shizuo is too thoroughly warm to find a spark in him for a fight. He rolls sideways instead, shifts his focus from the ceiling to the pale slant of Izaya’s shoulders, and when he throws a hand out it’s to touch the purple bruise of a bitemark rather than to pin Izaya to the sheets.

“That’s from yesterday,” Izaya offers. When Shizuo glances up there are crimson eyes fixed on his features, a smile tugging at the corner of Izaya’s mouth. “Against the kitchen counter.”

Shizuo remembers: the dig of fingernails at his hips, the arc of Izaya’s back as he bent him over the cluttered surface, the give of skin against his teeth before the teakettle whistled and interrupted what might otherwise have gone beyond aggressive making out next to the sink. He pushes up on his elbow, gains an advantage of height Izaya doesn’t try to match, and lets his fingers trail down the shift of breathing in Izaya’s chest to a fading set of fingerprints against a narrow waist, the shape of them matched to the span of his hand.

“You’re terrible, Shizu-chan,” Izaya observes. Shizuo looks up at him again, watches his smile go a little wider as Shizuo’s fingers spread out over his bruises. “Since I moved in with you I’m nothing but black and blue.” He lifts his arms over his head, stretches in a long shuddering motion that knocks the sheet off one skinny leg and shows off the raw red mark left from Shizuo pinning Izaya’s wrist down to the mattress a few minutes earlier.

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, sounding as warm and lazy as he feels. “It’s not as if you mind.”

“How do you know?” Izaya asks, mouth curving around a grin that is answer just by how bright it is. “You never bothered asking me.” Shizuo frowns at him, creasing frustration over his forehead, and Izaya laughs, lets his arms fall wide across the bed.

“I don’t mind,” he says, slow and taunting the words into condescension. “There’s only so much I can expect from a half-tame animal, after all.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo growls, presses his hold in hard against the bruises at Izaya’s hip. That gets him another laugh, breathless and hissing at the threat of pain, but there’s no biting commentary to follow; Shizuo’s not the only one too tired to fight, apparently. He lets his hold go, lets Izaya catch his breath while he trails his touch up instead, across the too-clear texture of ribs under pale skin and the scratch Shizuo left through Izaya’s shirt a few days ago all the way up to the pattern of bruises at the other’s shoulder, purple and red and faded green overlapping into a strange asymmetrical pattern.

“Can you see the scar?” Izaya asks suddenly. When Shizuo looks back at him Izaya is watching his face, his mouth dragging itself into a grin to match the lopsided tilt of his shoulders. Izaya’s hand comes up, smoothly enough that Shizuo leans away from the blow he expects, but there’s just a raised eyebrow in response and the slide of fingers against his hold on the other’s skin, Izaya feeling his way to some particular dip at his shoulder.

“Here,” he says, holds his hand still long enough for Shizuo to track the location before he lifts his fingers. There  _is_  a mark there, a crescent white under the bruised skin around it; Shizuo can see the signs of teeth as clearly as he can recall the taste of blood, is sure without checking that the curve fits his mouth as surely as the fingerprints fit his palm. “You bite too hard, Shizu-chan.”

“Huh.” Shizuo slides his thumb against the outline; there’s a faint texture to it, a suggestion of an edge under his fingers when he presses. Izaya hisses at the force applied over bruised skin but Shizuo doesn’t pull away. “Is this the only one?”

“Why?” Izaya purrs. “Do you like the idea of leaving something permanent on my skin?” He’s grinning again, reaching up to wrap his fingers against the side of Shizuo’s neck; Shizuo doesn’t flinch back, this time, even when Izaya’s thumb digs in painfully against what must be a bruise of his own against Shizuo’s collarbone. “If that’s what you want we could get matching tattoos, you know.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says.

“Aww, don’t be mean,” Izaya teases, digs his thumb in harder until Shizuo hisses and hunches in to relieve the pressure. “My name would look good on you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shizuo growls, shoves in closer to pin Izaya to the bed as the other loses control of his laughter and starts to giggle, the high, breathless sound that makes him sound more than a little unbalanced. “I’m not getting a fucking tattoo of your  _name_.”

“Just the scars, then,” Izaya says, and his voice is level all at once, stripped of any of the amusement that was there a moment ago. When Shizuo blinks Izaya’s watching him, his mouth flat with sincerity and eyes so dark they look nearly black.

“It doesn’t really matter,” Izaya states, slides his thumb out over Shizuo’s collarbone and back in again, the pressure aching bone-deep as his touch centers over the bruise he left earlier. “It means the same thing, right?”

 _Right_ , Shizuo knows but doesn’t say. He tightens his hold at Izaya’s shoulder instead, digs his fingertips in against the raised edge of the scar, and when he lowers his head to Izaya’s mouth he’s ready for the bite he gets instead of a kiss.

It means the same thing anyway.


End file.
